


God damn them all

by sloganeer



Series: kaná:ta' still means "town" in Mohawk [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Best Friends, Canon Canadian Character, Future Fic, Husbands, M/M, Open Mic Night, Post-Canon, Rose Apothecary (Schitt's Creek)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23441068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloganeer/pseuds/sloganeer
Summary: His husband has become something of a folk hero in Schitt’s Creek.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: kaná:ta' still means "town" in Mohawk [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686322
Comments: 18
Kudos: 161





	God damn them all

**Author's Note:**

> The 1st of the month + quarantine = writing challenge! A daily story about Patrick and David (but mostly Patrick) being aggressively Canadian. This one's about Stan Rogers and one of his unofficial Canadian anthems.

Patrick bounding onstage with his guitar strapped upside down and backwards around his chest is David’s sign that Open Mic Night is almost over and he can round up the last of their customers towards the cash. His husband has become something of a folk hero in Schitt’s Creek since his cover of “Barrett’s Privateers” went viral and the suburban kids from Toronto make the trip monthly now. Patrick does it the way Stan Rogers did it—a cappella—keeping the beat on the wrong side of his acoustic guitar.

“Oh the year was 1778—“

And the crowd joins him for the second line, “How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now!”

David has about four minutes to ring up the line curving around their empty produce crates; sometimes he gives Patrick a high sign, and his husband can stretch the song out to give David more time. 

“We’re out of bags, I’m sorry,” he tells the guy tapping his boot along to Patrick’s song.

“I brought my own,” the man says, pulling it out of his fanny pack. 

He really did. He shakes the bag out of its crumpled ball and holds it open so David can drop the willow charcoal and hand-stitched notebooks inside. 

“Thank you for shopping Rose Apothecary.” David holds the man’s eyes as long as he can, but there’s a really long line behind him.

“Oh Elcid Barrett cried the town—“ 

The couple who step up to David’s counter have their arms around each other’s shoulders and join the chorus: “How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now!” It’s very loud.

“We’re out of bags, I’m sorry,” David repeats.

He never wanted the Open Mic Nights to be a success. The first one was supposed to be an anomaly, a memory from their relationship that David and Patrick could look back on and smile and recount for jealous friends. But it turned out everyone else fell in love with his husband that night, too, and now David works the till while Patrick fawns in the praise.

He looks good, though, up there, sweaty in the lights, but with an ever-present grin and a kind word for every performer, even Bob, who’s still working on his poetry.

“The Antelope sloop was a sickening sight—“

By the third verse, David catches himself mumbling along about Sherbrooke, and he’s nearly ready to count the night’s take. He spots Stevie slipping through the front door. She’s usually the last to arrive, avoiding the worst of the acts, then turning up when David doesn't actually need help to drink the open bottles. 

She raises her eyebrows at David, nodding at the empty refrigerator. 

“I know, right?” 

“I was sitting in my office watching Bon Appétit videos, and you couldn’t send me a text before that happened?”

David pulls out the cash drawer and holds it on his hip to offer Stevie a hand over the counter. They duck behind the counter as Patrick heads into the next verse. 

“On the King's birthday we put to sea—“

“Do you ever wonder what’s so great about Sherbrooke?” Stevie asks. 

“Not even once.”

They keep the alcohol in the back room. This tiny storage area isn’t much more than a table and some chairs. They use it for eating lunch more than making out these days. David never knew how happy he could be not wanting to ravish his partner every moment.

Stevie kicks her feet up onto the table while David counts the cash. A lot of their customers are surprised to discover the Apothecary takes cards. Patrick even updated them to a contactless point of sale setup last year, but there’s something about the shop that makes people want to unburden themselves of their coins.

“On the 96th day we sailed again—“

“He’s halfway there,” Stevie says. “It’s not a bad song, really. Maybe we should get Patrick a real drum for next time.”

David shuts that down with a look. The piano was already a mistake. He had only been thinking about it, curious about the prices, but then David had discovered that living out in a place with a lot of old barns meant a lot of old pianos for sale. 

He bought the nicest-looking one for a few hundred dollars and had it wheeled into the back room for Patrick’s 35th birthday. Then he told his husband the funny story about all the pianos in barns, and now they have three of them.

Patrick rents a garage outside of town, and David’s pretty sure he’s gonna have to go out there soon, and sit quietly, and listen to a song written by his husband. It’s going to be embarrassing.

“Now the Yankee lay low down with gold—“

With arms raised, Stevie shouts, “How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now!”

“Hi there.” David grabs her hands. “Some of us are still working.”

“Good night?” she asks.

“In terms of profit, abso-fucking-lutely.” He leans his chair back to grab a pen from the shelf, then writes down the tally, all the numbers Patrick will need to do the books once he gets down off the stage.

“Then at length we stood two cables away—“

To the same tune as the crowd, Stevie sings, “Only three more verses now!”

“Open Mic Night is another success.”

Stevie shakes her head. “You’re never getting rid of it now.” She’s laughing. David’s crying. Patrick’s still singing.

“The Antelope shook and pitched on her side—“

“How is this song not over yet?!” He didn’t even try, but his outburst still scans with the rhythm. “I’m gonna be singing sea shanties in my sleep tonight. Why did he pick this song? Why did I post it?”

“Why are you complaining about your rock star husband and your thriving business?”

She’s waving a bottle in his face when David looks up. “Let’s get started on the after party,” she says.

“So here I lay in my 23rd year—“

Patrick goes quiet in the last verse. The crowd comes down with him, whispering their response.

“It’s been six years since I sailed away, and I just reached Halifax yesterday…”

David licks the wine from his lips. He can’t stop his smile.

“He’s good, right?” 

She rolls her eyes at him, but Stevie also nods. “I guess.” 

Patrick’s voice vibrates through the shop, his best imitation of Stan Rogers—even though Patrick’s a foot shorter and 50 pounds lighter than the man was, and not meant for a sailor’s life. David’s husband would never survive cruising the seas for American gold, even if the Americans had any gold left. 

But he can sing, and his voice brings the crowds from miles around.


End file.
